Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon
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“Good heavens.” She shakes her head and an expression of great peace and contentment spreads over her face. Raising her whistle to her lips, she gives a long blast.
St Rodencc has won!!!
“Fantastic!” We all chuck ourselves into each other’s arms while the St Belters coach races on to the field in a cloud of spray.
“Are you mad, Miss Garth?” she screams. “There’s another twenty minutes, not including injury time!”
“Not on my watch there isn’t,” says the umpire curtly.
I can still hear the coach’s voice when I get over to Penny.
“Nice work,” she says. “Give me a hand with this tap, it’s a bit stiff.”
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Turning off the water. Brilliant wheeze, wasn’t it? I suddenly saw this hose by the pitch and—”
“You flooded the pitch!?”
“Keep your voice down! We don’t want everybody to know. It will destroy the girls’ confidence.”
“Penny, you’re absolutely amazing. I—”
Penny is not listening to me. “Oh dear,” she says. “I see Roxane has come round.” I follow her eyes to the sight of the coach driver being pursued across the hockey pitch by an excited Roxane.
“I do wish she’d put some clothes on first,” sighs Penny.
“Well done, ladies.” I can hear the crackle of Miss Grimshaw’s stays as she leans forward.
“Thank you, Headmistress.” Penny and I bow our heads modestly.
“This was undoubtedly the finest victory in the school’s history—hic!” Miss Grimshaw closes her desk drawer and I hear the familiar chink of cold tea bottles. “However—hic! It was achieved at a cost.”
“We’ll be able to pay for the coach,” says Penny hurriedly. “It’s not as badly damaged as was first thought.”
“What I can’t understand.” Miss Grimshaw speaks slowly. “Is—hic! Why Fiona Fladger was driving?”
“Well, when the coach driver ran away we had to find someone. Fiona said she’d driven her father’s mini-moke.”
“More like mini-amok,” I say.
Miss Grimshaw winces. “Did the driver get away before—before they got him?” she asks. Penny nods.
“Thank God. We don’t want any more lawsuits. Did you say you were going to pay for the damage?”
“The girls had a whip round.”
Miss Grimshaw smiles. “You mean they whipped round the St Belters’ cloakrooms in search of booty?” Penny nods again. Miss Grimshaw’s smile becomes a beam. “Good. I’m glad to see that the buccaneer spirit is not quite dead. Were there any injuries in the crash?”
“Hermione Spragg sprained her ankle when one of the crates of light ale fell off a rack.”
“The light ale was all right?”
“Oh yes. A bit fizzy, but drinkable.”
Miss Grimshaw’s face clears. “Good, good. It’s terrible when disaster strikes twice.” She swallows another hiccup and reaches towards the drawer before restraining herself. “The police aren’t going to bring charges?”
“I think they’ll want to forget the matter,” I say. Penny casts her eyes down bashfully.
“It must have been a terrible experience for you,” says Miss Grimshaw. “I can’t think what came over the creature. Constable Dumpling has been a happily married man for as long as I can remember.”
“It was harrowing,” agrees Penny. “And totally unexpected. But from the school’s point of view …” Her voice fades away, tortured by memory.
Miss Grimshaw nods grimly. “Yes it was fortunate that the Inspector came by at that moment. Catching the bounder in the act. It certainly diverted attention from the coach.”
“Quite an achievement when you think it was sticking out of the wall of the Baptist chapel,” I say, brightly.
“So very good of him not to press charges,” continues Miss Grimshaw.
“I think the man has suffered enough,” says Penny. “I hear he’s being transferred to Royston.”
A silence falls on the room broken only by the sound of a long, low belch. Miss Grimshaw pats her stomach. “Ah, well. Time for tiffin. The inner woman must be served.” Miss Grimshaw catches Penny’s eye and blushes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“That’s quite all right,” says Penny.
News of our famous victory over St Belters is as nothing compared with details of Miss Green’s brush with the fuzz and it is that more than anything that serves to create a new wave of enthusiasm for athletic pursuits. Perhaps “new” is the wrong word. It suggests the existence of an enthusiasm in the past. Nothing could be further from the truth. Most of the girls at St Rodence get their only exercise when they cough through smoking too much. That or chasing Seth and Ruben Hardakre.
As the weeks go by I find that I think more and more about Seth. His firm, brown body seems to be everywhere I go. Sweeping up piles of leaves or standing, arms folded beside a smouldering bonfire, his dark eyes glowing with an equal fire—you can see how the atmosphere in this temple of learning is beginning to rub off on me, can’t you?
Geoffrey writes to me a couple of times but I find it difficult to scrape together the enthusiasm to reply. I learn that he has been fined £50 and banned from driving for a year. The police dropped the other charges. Poor Geoffrey! What a pity he did not have Penny with him when he was charged. He would probably have been given £50.
I am walking towards the pavilion because I want to have my tennis racket regutted. I know it is the middle of winter but one must be prepared. Mlle Dubois is coming out of the woods with a man I have not seen before. One of her pupils, I suppose. Mlle Dubois gives French lessons in her spare time. I saw her advertisement in the window of the village post office. The man has tears in his eyes. I expect he found the lesson very affecting. Miss Dubois tucks a wad of notes into the top of one of her black stockings and waves gaily. “Ooh la la!” she says. “A nize day for eet!”
I agree with her as I skip along the tree-lined path past the war memorial—the large crater made by a short-sighted German bomb aimer who was trying to hit Southmouth docks. There is a lark on the wing, and possibly one in the pavilion. Ruben Hardakre is a flirtatious old man as you would soon find out if he ever oiled your hockey stick.
“Morning, young missy,” he sings out as I cross the threshold. “It’s a fine day for swadging your gonjins.”
“It is indeed,” I agree with him. “I wonder if you could help me out.”
“But you’ve only just been and come in,” says the jovial yokel. His simple country wit is not much to my liking but at least it is better than some of the things you see on T.V.
“Ho, ho. Very good,” I say. “What I meant was, can you mend this for me?”
“Expecting snow, are you?” he asks.
“It’s a tennis racket.” I explain. Knowing St Rodence he has probably never seen one before.
“Dang my withers. I thought it was a snow shoe.”
“It is a bit old,” I say. “It used to belong to my aunt.”
“Use it for catching butterflies, did she?”